Chapter 5
Five
I sobel stood at her window, nervously smoothing the hem of her black leather jacket. The skirt she’d chosen—a shimmering, scandalously short one—felt more revealing than she remembered. Paired with a snug crop top that bared a sliver of her toned stomach and spiked heels that made her legs look impossibly long, she felt utterly out of her element. And yet, wasn’t that the point?
She glanced at her phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. Brad was late. But then, as if summoned by her impatience, headlights swept across the parking lot below her window. She took a deep breath, grabbed her clutch, and opened the door.
Brad stood on the porch of her condo, leaning casually against the frame, but his outfit was anything but casual. Brown leather pants clung to his long legs, hugging him in a way that made her blush. A cream silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to hint at his toned chest, caught the soft glow of the porch light. He looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of a steamy romance novel, and for a second, Isobel had to stifle a giggle.
“You’re staring.” Brad smirked as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.
“You’re… uh… committed to the look,” she replied, raising an eyebrow. “Where’s your flowing cape?”
He laughed, a low, warm sound that eased some of her nerves. “I left it at home. Didn’t want to overdo it.”
Isobel snorted. “Too late.”
Brad’s eyes swept over her, taking in her outfit with a slow, appreciative gaze that made her skin tingle. “You look incredible,” he said softly, the teasing edge in his voice replaced by something deeper—something real.
She swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. “Thanks,” she managed, slipping past him toward his car. “Let’s get this over with.”
The drive to Hot Shots was quiet but charged. Brad’s confidence seemed unshakable, but Isobel’s mind was spinning. She knew about clubs like this in theory—places that operated without rules, where indulgence reigned supreme. But knowing and experiencing were two very different things.
When they arrived, the neon sign above the door pulsed in garish pink and red. “HOT SHOTS” was scrawled in bold, flickering letters, casting the street below in a lurid glow. A line of people snaked around the block, some dressed to the nines, others barely dressed at all.
Brad placed a hand on her back as they bypassed the line, his touch warm and steady. “You okay?” He leaned close enough for her to feel the silk of his shirt brush her arm.
She nodded, though her stomach churned. “I think so.”
Inside, the club was a cacophony of sound, light, and heat. Throbbing bass shook the floor, and multicolored lights sliced through the darkness, illuminating flashes of skin, glitter, and leather. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and something muskier that Isobel couldn’t quite name.
Her eyes widened as she took in the scene. People danced wildly, their bodies pressed together in ways that bordered on obscene. In the corner, a woman clad in nothing but chains was draped over a plush velvet chair, laughing as a man knelt at her feet. On a raised platform, a pair of men were locked in a passionate, almost primal embrace, their movements raw and unrestrained.
And then there was the sound—the unmistakable, unabashed noise of people giving in to their basest desires. Moans, cries, and laughter mingled with the music, creating a symphony of hedonism that left Isobel’s cheeks burning.
“Brad,” she whispered, clutching his arm as they moved deeper into the crowd. “This is… this is a lot.”
He looked down at her, his expression serious but gentle. “I told you what to expect,” he said, his hand steady on her lower back. “Do you want to leave?”
She shook her head, though her heart was racing. “No. I just… I don’t know if I belong here.”
“You belong,” Brad said firmly, guiding her toward a quieter corner of the club where the shadows offered a small reprieve. “You’re curious. That’s enough.” His eyes met hers, dark and unyielding. “I think you need to see where your client’s mother and her boyfriend play.”
Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she was speechless. The vulnerability in his voice, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered left her reeling.
“I’m nervous, Brad,” she admitted, her voice barely audible over the music.
“I know,” his hand tightened on her back, “but I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe with me.”
The promise in his words was like an anchor in the chaos around her. And though her anxiety didn’t dissipate entirely, it softened, replaced by a flicker of something else. Trust.
“I’m trusting you,” she said, her voice firmer now.
He nodded. “Then stay close. The night is just beginning.”
Brad’s hand remained steady on her back as they roamed deeper into the club, leaving behind the throbbing mass of bodies on the main floor. As they descended into the lower level, the noise softened, but the atmosphere thickened. Isobel’s senses were overwhelmed by the dizzying mix of perfume, cologne, and a smoky sweetness that clung to the air, almost masking the raw scent of sweat and sex.
They reached a narrow hallway illuminated by dim red lights, casting shadows that clung to the walls and seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. Small doors lined the hallway, some cracked open to reveal glimpses of what lay beyond, while others were closed. Brad kept a firm hold on her, guiding her past each door like a shield, but her eyes couldn’t help drifting to the sights within.
Behind one door, a woman lounged on a plush chaise, her body draped in glistening silver chains, her hands tied loosely above her head. Her movements were languid, but her gaze was glassy, unfocused—an unmistakable sign of intoxication. Two men flanked her, both shirtless and gleaming with sweat, their gestures more possessive than attentive. One of them whispered something in her ear, but she didn’t react.
In another room, a crowd had gathered around a central stage. A man and a woman, both masked, performed an act that should have been a dance of power and submission, but it lacked rhythm or care. The man’s grip on her wrist was bruising, his movements erratic as if he’d had too much to drink. Her pained expressions were fleeting, quickly masked by a forced smile whenever the audience cheered.
Laughter, moans, and gasps mingled in the corridor, creating a twisted ambiance of indulgence and voyeurism. But beneath the surface, Isobel could sense something off—a nervous edge to the laughter, a hollow quality to the pleasure.
Her stomach turned as she passed another open door. Inside, two figures were intertwined on a low couch, their movements feverish and careless. The man wasn’t wearing a condom, and the woman, though participating, didn’t seem fully present. Empty glasses and discarded bottles littered the room, the faint smell of alcohol mingling with the smoke in the air. The scene felt rushed, disconnected, as though consent had been a fleeting thought, long forgotten.
“This… this is what I expected,” Isobel murmured, glancing up at Brad. Her voice shook, the words almost drowned by the muffled sounds spilling from the rooms.
Brad’s jaw was set, his gaze fixed ahead as he led her farther down the corridor. “I know. But it’s not what it pretends to be,” he replied, his tone almost disdainful. “This place, it’s a playground for people who want no rules, no responsibility. It’s nothing like the real lifestyle.”
“What do you mean?” She looked up at him, her brow furrowing.
Brad stopped, his gaze softening as he looked down at her, something almost protective flashing in his eyes. “What you’re seeing here isn’t true Dominance and submission. This is chaos disguised as control. Real D/s is about trust, boundaries, respect. Here, it’s all twisted into something cheap and dangerous.”
Isobel’s heart pounded as his words sank in. This was a world she’d glimpsed only in fantasies, in books and articles. But standing here, wrapped in the decadence of Hot Shots, she felt those ideas—consent, trust, mutual respect—had been abandoned at the door.
Her mind reeled, recalling the absence of safeguards. No one had asked for consent forms or checked medical histories at the door. The signs of neglect were everywhere—intoxicated participants, careless acts, a blatant disregard for safety. No staff watching over participants. It was a world devoid of the checks and balances she’d read about, and its glossy exterior only made the truth more disturbing.
Brad’s expression tightened. “This is where your client’s mother’s boyfriend comes. This is what he’s pulled her into. You needed to see it for what it is, for what it could mean for them.”
A chill ran down her spine. The images she’d glimpsed here seemed to shift from exotic to unsettling. The laughter in the rooms sounded sharper; the cries took on a note of desperation. It was a masquerade, she realized—a parade of pleasure that disguised something darker, something that held a dangerous allure for those who didn’t understand the real foundations of the lifestyle.
“Do you think she knows?” Isobel asked, her voice faint as they continued walking past room after room. “Do you think she understands what this is?”
Brad’s eyes darkened. “No. And that’s the danger. Someone new to this world might see this as normal, might believe this is how things are supposed to be. That’s why I wanted you to see it—so you understand the risks she’s facing.”
Isobel shivered, gripping his arm tighter. “I didn’t know it could be like this,” she admitted, the words barely audible. “I thought… I thought it would be more… respectful. I thought it was supposed to be about connection.”
They entered another hallway, this one narrower, the shadows stretching like claws across the cracked walls. The doors here were different—heavier, with scuffed metal plates and reinforced locks. One stood ajar, and before Brad could guide her away, her eyes flicked inside.
A woman was strapped to a table under a single flickering bulb, her arms splayed and bound with leather straps that bit into her wrists. Her makeup streaked down her face, her mascara smudged by tears that glistened under the harsh light.
A man loomed over her, his bare chest smeared with sweat, a belt coiled tightly in his fist. He barked something at her—a command, a question—but her lips barely moved. When she didn’t respond quickly enough, the belt lashed down with a sound like a gunshot. She flinched, her body jerking against the restraints, but her eyes remained vacant, detached, as if she’d retreated somewhere deep within herself.
Isobel’s breath caught in her throat. The man laughed, a sharp, jagged sound that sliced through the air. In the corner of the room, another man stood watching, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his expression bored. He made no move to intervene.
Brad tugged her away, his face a mask of tension, but the images seared into her brain. She wanted to ask him to stop, to leave, but they pressed on, the hallway closing in around her. She felt the walls breathing, the space alive with a sinister energy.
The next door swung open suddenly, and a figure stumbled out—a young man, shirtless, his chest slick with blood from shallow scratches that crisscrossed his torso. His pupils were blown wide, his face slack, and he swayed as though he could barely stand.
Behind him, the room was a nightmare. The floor was covered in a sheen of spilled drinks and bodily fluids, a mattress shoved against the wall stained with things Isobel didn’t want to identify. Two women remained inside, one slumped against the mattress, her head lolling to the side, unconscious or worse. The other was on her knees, trembling as a man loomed over her, his hands tangled in her hair. He barked a command, jerking her forward, and she sobbed but complied. The sound of her gagging followed Isobel as Brad pulled her away.
She was trembling now, her legs weak, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “What the hell is this place?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the muffled symphony of misery that seemed to emanate from every wall.
Brad’s face was grim as they stopped at the farthest door. “It’s not a club. It’s a hunting ground. A place where people come to lose themselves—and take others down with them.”
The final door swung open just as they approached, and the sight inside made Isobel’s stomach twist. A woman was on her knees, her arms chained to a pole in the center of the room. Her body was marked with bruises, her lip split and bleeding. A group of men surrounded her, their faces obscured by masks but their intentions horrifyingly clear. One held a camera, its blinking red light capturing every degrading moment. Another circled her like a predator, whispering things Isobel couldn’t hear but could imagine. The woman sobbed, shaking her head, her voice hoarse from screaming.
“No more,” she cried. “Please… no more.”
But her pleas fell on deaf ears. One of the men stepped forward, pulling at his belt with a chilling nonchalance, as if her pain were nothing more than entertainment. The others laughed, jeering, their voices merging into an inhuman drone.
Isobel turned away, bile rising in her throat, but she couldn’t unsee it, couldn’t unhear it. Her legs buckled, and Brad caught her, his grip firm. “We’re leaving,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “Now.”
As they made their way back to the main floor, the air grew colder, what she’d seen pressing down on her like a physical force. The laughter and music above felt hollow now, a facade masking the grotesque truths buried below. She felt dirty, her skin crawling, her heart pounding with rage and helplessness.
“Brad,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Someone needs to stop this.”
He didn’t respond, his expression dark, his steps purposeful as he led her out into the night. The door to Hot Shots closed behind them, but the horrors inside stayed with her, clawing at her mind with merciless persistence.
Still reeling, she looked up at him. “Thank you for being here,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I don’t think I could have done this alone.”
Brad’s hand moved to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to do this alone, Isobel. Ever.”
The sincerity in his voice wrapped around her, calming her racing thoughts. She knew Brad wasn’t just talking about tonight. His words were a promise, one he seemed willing to keep as long as she let him.
“What do we do now?” she asked, feeling the night settle over her.
He glanced back at the closed door, his expression hardening. “Now, we get out of here. And tomorrow, we figure out how to help your client—and anyone else drawn into this place—see the truth.”
Isobel cast one last look back, her heart pounding with a mix of fear, disgust, and relief. She’d glimpsed a darkness she hadn’t known existed, but she’d also found a strength she didn’t realize she possessed.
Before they merged onto the highway, Brad pulled to the side of the road. He lifted his phone from his pocket and typed something. He returned the phone to his pocket and slid his hand atop hers.
The drive back to Isobel’s condo was quiet, both of them lost in the intensity of what they’d just seen. The club lingered in her mind, a twisted kaleidoscope of images and sounds she couldn’t shake. Brad’s presence beside her felt steadying, his focus on the road solid and comforting as they moved farther away from Hot Shots .
When they pulled up in front of her building, Brad got out first, coming around to her side before she could even open the door. His quiet protectiveness made her feel, for a moment, safe—anchored to something real after an evening that felt surreal. They walked together up the steps, and as she unlocked the door, she found herself hesitating, words spilling out before she could second-guess herself.
“Do you want to come in? For a drink? Coffee or… tea?” Her voice was soft, and she felt suddenly self-conscious, realizing she must look as rattled as she felt.
Brad’s eyes softened as he looked at her, reading the tension that still lingered around her shoulders and in her eyes. “Tea sounds perfect,” he said, his gaze steady on hers. He followed her inside, and she slipped off her heels, sighing with relief at the feel of solid ground beneath her feet.
“I’ll just go change.” She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll be right back.”
In her room, she peeled off the club outfit, slipping into a pair of soft gray sweats that hugged her waist and pooled around her ankles. The sweatshirt was an old favorite, a deep green with sleeves a little too long that she liked to pull over her hands. She took a deep breath, looking at herself in the mirror, feeling a small wave of calm wash over her. It was as if shedding the clothes from Hot Shots also helped her shed the lingering discomfort.
When she returned to the kitchen, she found Brad standing by her stove, carefully brewing tea. The scent of chamomile filled the air, and she felt a pang of warmth at the sight of him there, so at home, so composed.
“Thank you.” She smiled as he poured the tea into two mugs and handed one to her. She wrapped her hands around it, savoring the warmth against her palms as they made their way into the living room.
The lights were low, and the room was cozy, filled with the soft glow of a few well-placed candles she’d left on the table. She sank into the deep, overstuffed couch, curling her legs up beneath her as Brad settled beside her, his posture relaxed but attentive.
“I didn’t think that place would be so… overwhelming,” she admitted, staring into her tea as if it held the words she was searching for. “I’ve read about these clubs, even thought I understood them. But that… that was something else.”
Brad nodded, his gaze serious as he listened. “I knew it would be a lot. That’s why I wanted to go with you, so you’d have someone there to ground you.”
Isobel looked over at him, taking in the way he held his mug, his hands wrapped firmly around it as if to gather warmth, his expression intent. “The line out the door, though… I can’t believe how many people were waiting. I didn’t think you’d get us in that quickly. I guess you showed your police ID or something.”
Brad shifted slightly, his expression unreadable, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Belle, we need to talk.” He set his mug down, his eyes locking onto hers with a steady gaze. “I didn’t show my police ID.”
Isobel blinked, confused. “You didn’t?”
“No,” he said softly, a seriousness settling over him. “I showed my ID for The Loft. They cross-honor members there.”
“The Loft?” She stared at him, processing his words. “What’s the… wait, The Loft?”
He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. “Isobel, I’m a Dominant. I’ve identified that way since college.”
A jolt ran through her, both surprise and… intrigue. “That’s why you know so much about the lifestyle,” she murmured, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place in her mind.
Brad’s mouth curved into a faint smile, one that made her stomach flutter despite herself. “That’s part of it,” he said, his voice rich and deep. “That, and I took the full course with the FBI on human behavior and power dynamics. But I didn’t need the course to know who I am.”
She studied him, feeling the tension in the room shift. “How did you… how did you figure it out?”
Brad leaned back, his gaze going distant as if he were looking into his own memories. “It was gradual. In college, I found myself drawn to certain types of interactions, relationships where trust and communication were everything. It was more than just attraction—it was about guiding someone, being the one they trusted enough to let go. Over time, I realized my need to be protective, to set boundaries and keep people safe, was more than just a personality trait. It was… an identity.”
Isobel’s heart raced, absorbing his words. The calm, assured way he spoke gave her a glimpse into a part of him she hadn’t known before, something intense and grounding. She’d always sensed his protectiveness, his quiet confidence, but hearing him describe it as part of a larger world he’d embraced felt like peeling back layers she hadn’t known existed.
Brad looked at her, his eyes searching her face. “Does that surprise you?”
“Yes. And no,” she admitted, her cheeks warm. “I’ve always felt… I don’t know, like there was something deeper with you. Something… powerful.”
A soft chuckle escaped him, and he reached for his mug again, lifting it to his lips as he watched her over the rim. “The feeling’s mutual.”
The words sent a shiver down her spine, and she looked away, feeling her heart pound in her chest. “All this time, I had no idea,” she said softly. “You always seemed so steady, so sure of yourself. I thought it was just… you.”
“It is me,” he said, “but it’s a part of me I don’t share with everyone. That’s why I wanted to take you to Hot Shots . So you’d understand, at least a little, what this life can be—and what it should never be. That place isn’t about respect or connection; it’s about losing yourself, ignoring boundaries. It’s an extreme that doesn’t represent what D/s is supposed to be.”
“How could you let that continue? It was horrible,” she cried.
“I didn’t,” he said simply. “Inside, your safety was my priority.”
“The text.” She nodded slowly, processing everything. “I think I understand now. And… I’m glad I was with you tonight.”
Brad’s eyes softened, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other, the room filled with unspoken words and possibilities. A warmth settled over her, the kind of warmth that comes with discovering something you didn’t know you were looking for.
He broke the silence, his voice low. “Belle, if you ever want to know more… about any of this… you can ask me. I’d be happy to show you what it really means.”
She met his gaze, her heart pounding, and a faint smile touched her lips. “I’d like that, Brad,” she said with a tinge of excitement—and maybe, just maybe, a hint of anticipation.